Flashing Lights
by KatsaRose
Summary: In which Alfred encounters car lights, fireworks, dancing, lots of coffee, and maybe a bit of love.
1. Chapter 1

First drafted on the 4th and 5th of July with the prompts of: Fourth of July, Car Lights, America. In the following months it grew from it's original ~3,000 words to over 7,000.

...

Alfred waves a lazy goodbye to his friends from work as they part ways on the sidewalk outside the club. They're all laughing, and he wishes he had parked his car closer to theirs, that he could fall into the middle of the group where the laughter is bright and the smiles are brilliant.

Instead he hums, still feeling the echoes of the pulsing music that surrounded him as he danced among sweaty bodies in the club. Then, with a few steps around a building, the raucous noise of late-night celebration muffles to a deceptively distant reverberation.

He's just a bit tipsy, not enough that he's going to call a taxi, but enough to turn the neon lights of the city down to a more tolerable level of glare and to give him a bit of a flush. His mind settles into the steady vibration of his sneakers on concrete as the neon lights mix into the yellow-white glow of streetlamps.

He presses the crossing button and leans against the pole to watch the glowing orange numbers from the other crosswalk countdown to zero, despite the fact that he hasn't seen more than one car since he turned off the main street. The lights change and he walks out onto the street, glancing over to see a car approaching the intersection to his left. He'll have to amend his previous statement, he's seen two cars now.

It's a surprise when he gets a quarter of the way across his side and the glaring car lights don't slow down. His breath catches behind his teeth and instead of getting him _moving_ like it's _supposed_ to, his mind provides, _oh shit, Mattie's gonna be a bitch about this and refuse to put American flags on my grave. Fuck you too, Mattie._

And then his face stings with the bitter bite of asphalt and someone's grunting into his ear. He squeezes his eyes shut as the blinding memory of car lights burns into his retinas.

He tries to shake his head to get rid of the image, pebbles and grit clinging to his face with a painful sting. Clenching his teeth, he props himself up on his elbows and turns to look at the weight sprawled on his back.

He can see enough of the person's body and head to assume he's a man, but his face is turned away to look back at something further behind him.

The man's clenched hand digs into Alfred's shoulder, which prompts Alfred to say "You alright, man?" to cover up an aggressive hiss of pain.

Green eyes snap back to his. They're a little too panic-filled for Alfred to deal with right now. "No. I am not alright! I just saved you from fucking death but now, of course, luck would have it that I get my own foot crushed in the meantime. I mean what kind of bloody fucking deal is that?! Save some twat's life: get crippled. I'm never going anywhere ever again if this is what I get. That blooming market is cursed! First I get lost on the way there, then lose my credit card in the parking garage, then this! But of course it's my–BLOODY HELL. FUCKING SHIT. YOU ARSEHOLE–"

Alfred continues to move carefully out from under the man even as his profuse apologies are drowned out by the other's agonized protests. Then he catches a glimpse of the man's foot. He has to look away and close his eyes.

After a moment, he let's his brain acknowledge the adrenaline fueled input from his senses again. The man is still cursing and rambling like he'll die if he keeps his mouth shut.

Alfred's confused as to how such a small man could have pushed him out of the way of a car, but he supposes it doesn't matter as long as they're both alive.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials 911 against the backdrop of an American flag on his second try. He turns away from the man, sits in an awkward almost-cross-legged position, and covers his other ear so as to better hear the dialing tone: the man's cursing isn't great background when he's trying to stay calm and talk to someone. Alfred takes another shaking breath as the call goes through. Damn, this adrenaline is not going down.

"911, what is the location of your emergency?"

"Oh uh um. We're at 2nd street and Oak Avenue."

"What's your name."

"Alfred F. Jones."

"Alright, sir. Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Uh, I was, I was. Well a car almost ran me over when crossing the street. Then this guy pushed me out of the way, but I think his foot got caught under the car and it doesn't look good. I think the tire crushed it or something." That was probably a shit explanation. Is this what operators deal with everyday? He wouldn't be able to clearly decipher a single sentence of what someone was saying if it came in that kind of quality.

"Are you with this person now?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sitting right next to him."

"Is he conscious?"

"Uh, yeah. He's definitely conscious." The man gives out a particularly loud string of curses and Alfred winces.

"Alright, sir. I have the police and an ambulance on the way to help you."

"Wait! Should I uh, move him off the street? I don't want to hurt him."

There's a pause. "Try to move off the street if possible, and at the very least make sure you're visible to oncoming traffic."

"Al-alright."

"Is there anything else you need assistance with?"

"Uh, no. I think I'm good."

"I'm hanging up now, but help will be there soon."

"Okay."

When the line goes dead his heart seems to beat louder and faster to make up for the silence that follows a pained gasp from the man as he turns from his belly to back, hiking his uninjured leg up to support his half-sitting position.

Alfred lets the phone drop into his lap, blinking at the smudges of blood on the screen from his cheek and fingers before turning back to the man. He's clearly British, what with the curses and accent, and Alfred briefly wonders what he's doing here before forcibly reminding himself that right now _here_ is sprawled out in the middle of the road where it isn't actually safe.

He grimaces as he stands up, pain shooting through his legs as his initial preoccupation with what his mind decided was more important fades away. There's a particularly nasty scrape on his knee where the asphalt tore through his jeans. The man's curses, quieter with exhaustion, stutter through a brief pause of confusion when Alfred wiggles his arms underneath his legs and around his back. He lifts him up in his arms bridal style. If he wasn't as strong as he was, he doesn't think he could hold up a pillow with all the adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his limbs buzz like they've been filled with static. The man's curses aren't dying down, having begun with a new venom after Alfred's trembling ended up tapping the man's mangled foot on the ground. Alfred rather thinks at this point that he'd be more worried if they did stop. They didn't seem to have any target, damning the car's driver in the same breath as "this whole manky nation".

He sets him down on the curb, careful to not bang his foot down this time. The man lets himself fall back onto the sidewalk, propping his foot up on the edge of the curb so that he drips blood into the gutter. Alfred glances over at him with concern and the start of a question before being silenced by clenched teeth and a glare. Both of them avoid looking at the man's foot, the man in question throws an arm over his face to form a shield against the world around him. Alfred can't keep his eyes from the trail of blood scattered like breadcrumbs from the bigger stain a few feet into the pedestrian crossing, almost perfectly lined up with to the dotted line separating the left turn lane from the main lane.

"Do you need–"

"I'm in bloody fucking agony you tosser. Piss off."

Alfred returns to staring at the blood, leaning onto his tucked up knees and picking at the edges of the new hole on the right knee of his jeans.

A police car arrives and he answers their questions more clearly than he had with the 911 operator. Contrary to what people always told him, the disorientation only lasted a bit. The adrenaline doesn't seem to care about his mindset though and he can't hold a full cup of water without spilling some down the side. This sucks.

The police ask him to testify and write some stuff like contact information down. It's then he fully realizes the car that almost killed him drove away, and like, what the fuck? They ask the other man a couple questions and Alfred casually learns his name is Arthur Kirkland.

What a nice name. It needs to be compressed into an annoying nickname immediately.

Too bad Arthur's ushered away to tend to his foot.

He asks if he can ride along with him but the paramedics say they can't have him in the way. He doesn't ask again.

The paramedics make sure to properly clean up his face, knee, and hands. Once they make sure they're only surface wounds and he won't sue them if he goes and gets them infected, they let him go.

He goes to the hospital in his own car after the ambulance leaves.

* * *

There's a couple people at the desk, so he sits down in a chair for a minute to rest his wobbling knees and tell his jittering hands to calm down. It's been a whole fucking hour body, _calm down_.

He falls asleep.

Someone nudges him awake and he looks blurrily at the woman sitting beside him before remembering why he's there. The people at the desk tell him not even family is allowed to visit yet. He waves away their concern about his own wounds before walking out to his car.

He goes home and falls asleep in his own bed.

* * *

He thinks the aftermath of something like this should be more dramatic and filled with tears, but it's just boring paperwork and elevator music filled calls. He thought it would change his life or something.

He examines the scratches on his face from the gravel in the mirror with a kind of grim satisfaction. They make him look awesome. Too bad only the knee is likely to scar.

* * *

He wishes he could have been the hero instead.

* * *

It's oddly simple to return back to normal life, but he supposes he wasn't the one to get his foot crushed.

Once his work friends make sure he's ok, they tease him relentlessly for a week. They won't let him cross any street without a barrage of sarcastically concerned quips and an entourage of what feels like twenty people, but is actually only five, acting as a shield each time. All of them giggling and stumbling over each other the whole way across. Idiots.

* * *

He wonders how Arthur's doing.

* * *

On an open evening, he sits down with his laptop and searches for Arthur Kirkland. A twitter and facebook pop-up along with a business site. He only resorts to the business site after seeing that the social media accounts are both private. The site advertises Arthur as a freelance editor and only presents him with a work number.

After a couple more minutes of fruitless searching, he grabs his phone and punches the number in with a resigned sigh, hanging his head off the edge of the couch and swinging his feet onto the back.

"Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland. Is there any way I can help you." the voice on the other side says.

"Hi! It's Alfred."

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I know anyone by that name." Oh, woops.

"I'm that guy you saved from a car crash like a week ago. You know? Got your foot crushed for." Which was probably not the best way to open but fuck it.

"Oh." It's not a light 'oh', but a resigned one. There's some muffled shuffling of what's probably papers before he says, "What do you want." Brutal. It seems when he's not explicitly cursing out the entire country, Arthur keeps all his anger implicit in the tone of his words. Even then, the professionalism in Arthur's voice is oddly disorienting.

"I was wondering if I could get you a coffee or something? I feel kind of bad about the whole thing. I mean, even though it wasn't my fault at all or anything!"

"I really don't care about any naive attempts at bloody reconciliation."

"Aw come on. You don't even have to talk to me beyond telling me your order. It's a free drink." He knows he's practically begging at this point, but he can't just let what's basically a life debt go unattended. He's not used to being the helpless damsel in distress.

There's a substantial pause. "Fine. I like tea better though."

"Ok. Bitty Bakes has some great drinks and pastries. Tomorrow at five?" says Alfred.

"Fine." The call ends.

He lets out a relieved sigh before realizing Matthew's leaning on the arm of the couch and nearly screams.

Matthew puts his chin in his hand. "I thought you swore not to go on any dates after binge watching every sitcom available on Netflix."

"This isn't a date!" Alfred whines and throws a pillow at Matthew.

"Oh so you're just going to 'hang out' like middle schoolers and blush every time your fingers touch," says Matthew. His grin is lost behind another barrage of pillows.

* * *

One day and ten minutes of agonizing debate over the wanted-dead-or-alive-schrodinger's-cat versus the red if-this-shirt-looks-blue-than-you're-going-too-fast t-shirt later, he arrives at Bitty Bakes in the blueshift shirt and leans against the counter by the window. He's early enough to have a few minutes to look around the familiar shop. People chat, inside and out, over their drinks and pastries.

Students from both the nearby highschool and community college hammer away at their keyboards or scribble in their notes while nursing their beverages. Late at night, the shop's corners are filled with frantic students right up until the closing time at eleven, but right now there's more ties and white-shirts and people talking on their phone asking their family for orders. Alfred just came from work too, but he changed when he left the lab. He fiddles with his t-shirt and lets his mind wander as he watches people go by.

When Arthur walks up to the shop, Alfred scrambles to justify his defense against Matthew's school-yard taunts, even if only to himself. Before, Alfred had been focused on the blood and situation and immediate consequences. Now, all that's gone and Alfred's free to notice every little detail. Even leaning heavily against crutches, Arthur's presence is palpable in the way he carries himself and how his eyes dart about the room, framed by thick eyebrows. His dusty corn blond hair falls across his forehead, buffeted by the wind outside. He's wearing a button up shirt covered by a handsome, verdant green vest.

Arthur's eyes land on him and stay. Alfred focuses on giving a little wave of his hand in acknowledgement to keep himself from staring.

They order; Alfred gets a pumpkin spice latté, and Arthur gets earl grey tea that comes in one of Bitty Bakes' decorated ceramic cups. They sit down outside on the rickety metal chairs. It's a café right by a plaza, so there's a pleasant hum of conversation and splashing water from the fountain with a statue of a young ballet dancer, raised arms leading to the elegant curve of her back while water fans out from her waist in a shimmering skirt and reveals the continuation of the subtle curve through her straightened legs. With April coming to a close, the streets are damp from a recent rain shower, but the flowers and trees scattered about are bursting into brilliant colors.

They sit silently.

"So, can _I_ at least talk to _you_?" Alfred says.

"It's not like I can _shut_ your mouth," Arthur says. Alfred laughs.

"I thought the same for you, the way you were going on that night. But obviously all it takes is public social interaction to keep you quiet."

Arthur sips his tea and glares.

"I'm Alfred F Jones by the way."

Arthur nods and stirs his steaming drink.

Alfred waves his hand about in the air and says. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm an editor."

Alfred holds in his exasperation with a fair bit of effort. When nothing further is forthcoming, Alfred just takes it upon himself to fill the silence. The conversation dissolves into a monologue from Alfred, hands waving, latté cooling. To be fair, it's interspersed with a couple remarks from Arthur, even if they are biting.

Arthur glances down at his watch–probably to demonstrate whatever snark he was about to spout about Alfred's most recent story involving a spatula, an egg, the roof, and every single one of his lab friends–and blinks at it.

"I've got to go. I have to send the idiots I'm working with emails to remind them of their deadlines." He goes to pick up his empty cup of tea, to find that a waiter picked it up a while ago. There's another blink of disoriented confusion before he shakes his head, straightens up, grabs his crutches, and walk away.

"See you later then!" Alfred calls after him. Arthur gives a noncommittal wave over his shoulder.

* * *

It somehow becomes a habit, despite Arthur's complaints. Every five to seven days Alfred will call him up to make sure he's coming and then monologue at him over a cooling drink of whatever–he tries something different every time–while Arthur sips at his tea, leaving when it's gone.

It's fun to talk to someone who's never heard any of his favorite stories before and seems to like listening to every single one of them.

* * *

Alfred ignores the kissy faces Matthew gives him with a roll of his eyes. The man is cute, but not boyfriend material.

* * *

They text occasionally, but Arthur seems to invariably revert back to email format, all formal introductions and paragraph long answers. They quickly decide to use the text messenger for only reminders of meeting times and links: Alfred linking cat videos and the newest scientific discoveries, Arthur linking in-depth commentaries on old and new books and poems and impressive dance music videos.

Stories and friendly discussions are saved for their meetings at Bitty Bakes at what evens out to occur an average of twice a week.

* * *

"So, what do you do when you're not editing, Artie?" Alfred's leaning back in his chair, looking up at the cloudy sky. It was a long day at the lab, and he's not really sure why he didn't call this meetup off. So, he's throwing out the conversation hook in hopes of catching Arthur on some kind of interesting rant that might wake him up. The fact that none of his prompts have worked before doesn't mean that this one will fail.

"Editing takes up a lot of time, _Alfred_." Arthur's still isn't over his nickname apparently.

"Yeah, but you have to have some interests besides editing."

Arthur rolls his eyes, "If you really want to know, I dance."

"Are you any good?"

"Of course I am! I mean-" Arthur clears his throat. "-I'm no professional. But I've been in a few local performances, I was part of a college team, and I practice in my free time." Alfred can't help but glance down to where Arthur's foot is carefully placed on the ground. Arthur straightens his back, eyes dropping down to his swirling tea. "I mean. I did practice. I. I will practice."

Alfred feels like he's about to lose something here and he scrambles to keep Arthur from getting lost in his tea, lost from the conversation, lost from Alfred. "I guess someone like you would like dancing, but what's the point really?"

"Someone like me!?" Arthur spluttered, glaring at Alfred and putting his tea down with a distinct clink. "Dancing is a highly respected physical and mental skill. It preserves traditional, culturally relevant techniques, while also allowing for plenty of modern and individual flair. Anyone can participate as either a performer or spectator, no matter their skill, but training is rewarding and should be respected for the time and effort it takes. It can build strength, and teamwork, and endurance, and flexibility and a plethora of skills in between! It's not confined to a single demographic, or whatever you're thinking, it spans time, space, and culture with its messages and spontaneity. You can't get that everywhere."

Arthur's eyes flutter down in the sudden pause, but they're soft and distant, not brittle and closed-in. "And, it's personal. It let's someone open up in ways they can't anywhere else."

A bubble of contemplative silence settles around them.

"I think that's what I find so attractive about writing as well." Arthur's mouth curves into the slightest of smiles, the kind of smile that you're completely aware of and know is revealing too much, but you allow to persist anyway. Because what's so wrong about showing a bit of yourself?

Arthur finishes his tea.

Alfred looks out at the sky.

{Chapter 1 of 3}


	2. Chapter 2

"And he just can't take a single bloody speck of criticism unless I wrap it up in twenty layers of compliments. It's not even a compliment sandwich, it's one of your outrageously multi-layered burgers where only the meat has any substance but he just keeps asking for more layers of compliments. It's ridiculous! I can't believe that I have to deal with him. He always boasts about his massive family fortune. I only wish he'd use it for a proper education! But of course he'll just throw what he thinks should be a bestseller at me instead, telling me to fix it, but not allowing me to change anything in the slightest! I wish I could just get my own writing through the process by editing it myself. It's better than most of the crap that crosses my desk every day!"

Alfred nods along, drinking his hot chocolate with his feet tucked up and perched precariously on the edge of the metal chair. It's odd. Usually, he can't stand letting someone else talk forever without even a sentence of interjection, not when he has stories of his own to share. (Matthew doesn't count because they can rant at each other for however long they want. It's a rule.) But with Arthur, Alfred feels no compulsion to take hold of the reigns. He's not bored or uncomfortable with what he's talking about. He just likes listening for once.

He finishes his drink first.

It's a change.

* * *

He likes it. He likes Arthur.

* * *

He thinks he might even love Arthur.

* * *

Arthur probably only thinks of him as a friend.

* * *

He shouldn't ask if his assumption is true. That would be embarrassing.

* * *

Just bottle up his feelings instead. Yeah. That sounds much safer.

* * *

Alfred buys Arthur a book to celebrate his complete recovery, the go-ahead from his physical therapist that allows him to dance as much as he wants again. The book's some sci-fi something that the bookstore owner had directed him towards. It had explosions on the front. Arthur is confused but says thanks, glancing up at Alfred like it's not the present that confuses him, but that he got one from Alfred at all.

Alfred throws his burning face into a pillow when he gets home. Matthew throws fucking chocolate Hershey's kisses on his back while prancing around the apartment. He's cackling, the bastard.

* * *

Alfred strategically only gets ready for the outing after Matthew leaves, offering him an ample amount of time to worry way too much over his hair and nice, but casual, clothes without any sarcastic commentary. A red button-up shirt and dark jeans coupled with his favorite glasses.

He picks up Arthur from his house, and they only waste around ten extra minutes while he tries to direct Alfred to the theater where the local dance center is holding a fundraiser performance. Alfred compliments Arthur on his professional, forest green suit that brings out the color of his eyes. Arthur's blush only adds to the outfit.

Arthur ushers him through the doors into a small auditorium, like a concerned mother-hen, and then leaves him to go around to the back entrance. Alfred wishes all the other dances would go faster, looking down at the program whenever there's enough light as if the dance will move up in the list. To be fair, none of them are terrible and a few are really great and he finds himself enthralled. But he barely stops himself from prematurely clapping as the lights come onto the dance that Arthur choreographed and taught to his colleagues, obviously unable to participate himself. It focuses mainly on sequences centered around the pairs of dancers, though there are break offs of individual performances. Alfred finds himself wishing Arthur would teach him some of the duet parts, especially one sequence where the pairs are always connected by at least a finger but never stop moving. Then there's this one part where one person spins the other and their momentum carries them up and up from a kneeling position on the floor to pressing their hands into the person's shoulders, feet pointed delicately back into the air. He has to let out the breath he didn't know he was holding when their feet touch the ground again.

He can barely contain himself until Arthur comes out of the back entrance with the other participants. "ARTIE THAT WAS AMAZING! I thought all of them were going to fall at that one part, but then they didn't and then there were suddenly only like three people and the costumes were so cool. Except they needed more sparkles, only that one with the feathers had enough sparkles really but the colors in yours were still pretty if you think about it and-"

Arthur drags him away through the gathered group, silent as a turtle and red as a strawberry as he drowns in the flood of exuberant compliments.

Alfred pauses for a breath as they get into the car and Arthur tries to start him on a different topic by throwing out random questions about his job. Alfred just picks back up right where he left off as soon as Arthur pauses in his questioning for more than a second.

Mortification finally overcoming his reservations, Arthur says, "Alfred, stop."

Alfred does stop, in the middle of a word, the sudden sizzling out of a radio when you go out of range.

Arthur barely holds in his sigh of relief as heat fades from his cheeks.

Alfred whispers, the quietest he's ever spoken since Arthur has known him, "Sorry. People tell me I talk too much all the time but I forgot." He bites the inside of his cheek and his eyes stay determinedly on the road. He understands. And he's going to stop thinking about how his gut had dropped when the familiar words had slipped out of Arthur's mouth.

"I- Alfred…" Arthur's voices trickles away as words evade him.

"So, tell me about that tea shop you said opened up near your home," Alfred says.

Arthur jumps on the topic with nervous enthusiasm and Alfred says less than two sentences for the rest of the drive.

* * *

"And then the author started talking about all the ghost stories that emerged in the Civil War. Like, thousands of people were dying hundreds of miles from home and a lot were being shredded to bits by cannonballs or lost in swamps or somehow just disappeared, leaving the family with nothing to grieve over when before people usually died in their home and the family would have proof they were dead. Obviously this led to lots of heart-broken souls thinking they saw their dead ones return or people that would just wander the battlefields in search of their loved ones. The ghost stories that emerged are terrifying!"

"Fascinating," Arthur says. "And why are you reading about this exactly?"

"I'm interested in history, Artie!" Alfred pouts. "It's not like I only read comic books and science articles."

"You may as well, because that's all I hear about," Arthur scoffs into his tea. "Utter and complete non-fiction or the most fantastical of heroic stories. You cannot bear to endure anything that isn't completely monotone or completely non-sensical."

"Well, that's just rude," Alfred says. Arthur purses his lips in an attempt to suppress his smile, but his glinting eyes betray him.

He blinks it away as he remembers something. "Say, Alfred, would you mind if we started meeting in the mornings? The woman I'm working with prefers to talk about edits in the afternoon when she's returned from her day job. I'm always up in the morning anyway, so it would fit nicely into my schedule."

"I dunno if that would work? I usually head to work at 9, even though I wish I could stay asleep until then." Alfred laughs, but Arthur just gives him a weird look. "What?"

"No, I meant at somewhere closer to 7, er 8 AM?" It comes out more like a question than the statement that it should be.

Alfred blinks at Arthur as his mind processes the meaning of what he said. And then he remembers the legend told as a bedtime story that some people actually enjoy and even naturally wake up at absurd o'clock in the morning, but he has never meet such a creature. Surely the trustworthy Arthur cannot be the one spoken of in the stories? The only reasonable explanation is that, despite years of living here, Arthur's mind is still stuck in another timezone.

He squints at Arthur and the scrutinized man starts to twitch in his seat, looking around and mixing his tea with the nervous confusion of I-don't-actually-know-what's-going-on-but-I'm- not-going-to-ask-because-I'm-trying-to-be-polite-here.

Alfred supposes that now that he's been voluntarily opting out of many of the late night adventures of his coworkers and isn't going to bed at death-o'clock in the morning for as many days of the week he might be able to drag himself out of bed.

It would be nice to start out the day by talking to Arthur.

He crosses his arms, squints into a far distance, and gives a pondering nod as he makes the life-altering decision. "Ok then. 7:30 in two days."

Arthur tries to discreetly look behind him. Finding nothing, he looks warily back to Alfred. "Alright then."

* * *

Arthur looks insanely pretty in the morning light. The two claim a specific table every time they come to Bitty Bakes and chose their respective chairs long ago. Now every morning the rising sun lights up Arthur's planed face with light that softens the edges and glistens on his lips in a way that just begs Alfred to kiss them.

It's pure torture.

It doesn't help that his brain can never kick into proper working order until he has at least a full cup of coffee in him. This means his usual restraint of only staring at Arthur's face when a guffaw closes his eyes and crinkles his nose disappears entirely, and that his usually constantly working mouth lays down in exhausted defeat to allow him to absently listening to Arthur's floating rants much more often. It means he falls just that much more in love with his lilting accent and purposefully placed pauses and the way his eyes flick to Alfred's for a sign of encouragement when he starts getting into a more personal story and his joyful, tittering laugh and his demeaning, sarcastic one and the way he sweeps his hair to the side when he's trying to find the right word and the tilt of his light-softened chin when he's about to throw a quip that he thinks is particularly clever at Alfred and just, everything.

Alfred doesn't even know what he expected.

He's head over heels, past the point of no return, never even had a chance.

* * *

"Hey, so my birthday's on Tuesday. I was wondering if you wanted to light off some fireworks with Mattie and me later that night, being the Fourth of July and all."

Arthur raises an eyebrow over his tea. "You're inviting me to an American holiday used to celebrate bald eagles, sparkly things, freedom, and blatantly cack-handed behaviour? Really? I'm British as you may recall, or maybe not apparently."

Alfred splutters out something between a laugh and huff of indignation. Arthur smiles back at him.

"Besides, why can't we just do _this_ like we normally do?" Arthur gestures to the table with his cup.

"I'm with my extended family from morning 'til evening," Alfred says sheepishly.

"What, too embarrassed of your family to let me meet them?" Arthur says.

"What! No! I just- I thought we could do something cool by ourselves. It'd be awkward for you to meet them on my birthday."

"Yes, yes, whatever excuse makes you satisfied," he waves his hand placatingly in the air. Then he smiles at Alfred. "I'd be happy to be there."

* * *

Alfred introduces Arthur officially, and Matthew throws Alfred a playful smirk while saying, "I've heard so much about you! I'm glad I'll finally get to hang out with you myself."

There's no escaping a round of pillow war before heading out to the empty parking lot up a nearby hill where they can look out over most of the city. It's at the end of the street and perpetually smells of ashes, but that just means there's no one else around to chastise their screams and yells that are more fit for kids on a playground than the adults they're supposed to be.

They run out of fireworks eventually, and the late night weighs on their shoulders enough to make them settle back on the the curb of the parking lot. They stare out at the city lights and the fireworks exploding in the distance over the city's main park as they nurse bottles of beer. It's dark enough at the edge of the city to be able to see a good scattering of stars as well.

Arthur's able to point out many of the constellations they can see, and includes their mythology upon request. Once he trails off, they end up staring up at the sky, pondering whatever their mind stumbles upon for a while. The lapse in conversation is a pleasant type of quiet.

Matthew proclaims that he's going home. Alfred starts to get up with him but he waves him down.

"No, you're enjoying this Alfred. You can stay a bit."

Alfred looks up at him, puzzled, until something dawns on him. "You just want to meet up with Gilbert."

Matthew's lips quirk up. "Well what if I do? Arthur can drive you home."

A lazy nod from Arthur confirms the arrangements when Matthew looks down at him questioningly and Alfred decides to let Matthew have his fun, settling back down next to Arthur.

The lights on Matthew's car flicker on before before turning away and leaving them in a silent darkness filled with starlight and the smell of smoke.

Arthur lets out a reluctant sigh and says, "Your brother is trying to set us up, isn't he?"

"W-What?! No. No of course not! If anything he's trying to be... Be with his boyfriend. YEah." Alfred winces.

Arthur's stiffens, and he turns to face Alfred, setting his hand down on the concrete edge startlingly close to Alfred's, whose poor heart speeds up with unbidden adrenaline. The city lights dance in Arthur's green eyes, an emerald city all his own.

His voice comes out as a whisper, somehow amplified by the darkness. "Alfred. Are you interested in me?" It's asked with the hesitant, shallow breath and guilty eyes that hit Alfred at his core. He knows the signs well from whenever he's apologizing to others after they express genuine exasperation at his enthusiasm. The words are apologetic, but his body language begs the other person to let him down kindly even though he doesn't deserve a single thing from them. Every shield is laid low, and every shield is at full defenses. Despite the clear expectation he has for an answer, he's still taken his chance and asked.

"Well- I mean-" Alfred breathes in and tears down all his built up restraints with the release of the deep breath. If Arthur can do it, so can he. "Yes." He has to bite his cheek to keep himself from stuttering out something that would negate or soften the truth of that single word.

Arthur's eyes flicker as he searches Alfred's face for any sign of a lie, and then he closes them and he tilts his chin up without another syllable, the words that he so loves to use having left him. Alfred doesn't mind a single bit.

Alfred stares at his face for a moment, taking in how the starlight gives everything an edge. He likes the softness of morning light better. He leans in to kiss the hardness away.

They kiss like a light settling on the frozen dancer the moment before the music begins, an event that everyone knows is bound to happen, but doesn't lose a speck of its impact.

Alfred remembers his original goal and tries to kiss the edge of Arthur's chin, but gives a mumble of disappointment when he finds that their current position next to each other is not ideal for this. He fumbles onto Arthur's lap, tangling his hands into Arthur's hair to gain better access to his chin and where his hair meets his skin and the tip of his nose and his eyebrow ridge and whatever else he discovers in the meantime. Arthur wraps his hands around Alfred's waist and pulls him closer while breathing out laughs of pleasure against Alfred's hair and collarbone.

"I like you a lot too." Arthur says into Alfred's ear as he kisses Arthur's hairline.

Alfred leans their foreheads together.

"Shakespeare right there, Artie." Alfred chuckles and Arthur reddens.

"It'd be better if I wrote it out."

"Is that a promise?"

Arthur considers him for a moment. "Yes. Yes it is."

Alfred beams and leans in to kiss his lips again.

Arthur breaks the kiss after a moment, and nudges him off of his lap. Alfred's heart beats in a nervous stutter, even though he believes Arthur's words full-heartedly.

Arthur stands up and holds out his hand. "Come dance with me, Alfred."

Alfred bites his cheek to hold back a smile that would surely reveal to Arthur every moment he's hoped for Arthur to ask him that since he saw his choreography.

He takes Arthur's hand.


	3. Epilogue

They stumble up the stairs to Alfred's apartment, Arthur shushing Alfred with the reminder that people are _sleeping_ and it's your home so you should _know_ that, and Alfred giggling as he tries to get Arthur to show him how to do that twirl just once more.

Arthur successfully quiets Alfred by the time they get to his door with a dip and a kiss. Alfred fumbles his keys out of his pocket, hands tingling with the memory of Arthur's intense hold on them. He pushes the right key into the lock and opens the door, walking into the room backwards so as to best give Arthur a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. Arthur sighs and shakes his head, not even trying to hide his smile.

Arthur eyes widen to when he sees something behind Alfred's body.

He scrambles to grab Alfred's arm to pull him back out the door as he says, "Uh, Alfred, how about we go to my place?"

"Huh? Why?" As he's pulled forward, Alfred turns his head to see Matthew's head poking up from the couch facing away from the door, panicked eyes and the disappearing flash of familiar white hair telling him everything he needs to know.

"Oh my god! Bro! You're all grown up! I never thought I'd see the day! I thought you'd never get past PDA!" He tries to pull Arthur back in while wiping away a fake tear but Arthur has the assistance of momentum.

The door closes and Alfred's voice is carried away.

Matthew lets his head fall onto the back of the couch. "Fuck, I'll never hear the end of this."

"Well, you did say you left to basically set them up," Gilbert says, coming up from his hiding place to lean on his elbow next to Matthew's face.

Matthew lifts his head and throws his hands out in a gesture of frustration. "They needed a push! I could barely stand being around one lovesick fool, the two together was just too much. Besides, I didn't expect them to come back _here_ when they were left with _Arthur's_ car!" Matthew pouts.

Gilbert chuckles, and the chuckle turns to a laugh then a cackle.

"Shut up! You'll wake up our neighbors!"

"I think your brother and his boyfriend already did that."

Matthew sticks his tongue out at Gilbert before looking fondly at the closed door. "I'm glad he found someone that'll make him happy."

"Well, _I'm_ annoyed that my boyfriend isn't paying enough attention to me."

Matthew crinkles his nose, "You're awful."

Gilbert kisses him on his forehead. "But you love me for it."

"Of course I do."

* * *

"Aw come on Artie. Why can't I go back? It's my _brother_."

"Exactly, I have enough siblings to understand Matthew's plight. I'm saving him from your unbearable teasing. Wouldn't you be embarrassed if Matthew walked in on something intimate between the two of us?" He waves his hand and turns around to see Alfred's reaction, but is faced with a completely blank face instead. He waits for something to flicker across his face, but nothing comes. Arthur's face starts to heat up against his will.

But then Alfred can't hold it any longer and breaks out into laughter.

"Bloody hell," Arthur mutters as he walks briskly away from where Alfred is slapping his knee. "I cannot _believe_ I fell for that."

"No but wait, Artie!" Alfred takes gulping breaths between his laughter as he jogs across the faintly lit parking lot in pursuit of Arthur. "Artie! Are you too embarrassed of me to-ha-to show our love to-pfft-to my brother? _I'd_ display my love to _your_ family."

"I'm breaking up with you!" Arthur calls back.

"But Artie! You're my true love! Don't you remember we fell in love at first sight? The moment you cursed in my face, I knew you were the one!"

"Fuck you!"

"Gladly!"

"Bloody hell!"

Alfred continues to tease Arthur with gleeful abandon as he follows him into the dark edges of the lot where Arthur's car is parked. He puts on a sudden burst of speed in order to catch Arthur by surprise and spin him clumsily around in one of the ways he's learned in the past hour and then swoop him up into his arms bridal style.

Alfred's unrestrained laughter and Arthur's unbidden snorts, muffled in Alfred's chest, carry through the quiet night with their own musical quality, containing all the brilliant company one could wish for.


End file.
